


it's sweetness that I'm thinking of

by jjjat3am



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music Store, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 12:59:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4020715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/jjjat3am
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam works in a record store and Steve walks in to ask for directions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's sweetness that I'm thinking of

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rivlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/gifts).



> I hope it's what you wanted!
> 
> This work also has a fanmix which you can find [here](http://8tracks.com/jjjanimefan/it-s-sweetness-that-i-m-thinking-of)

 

 

 

Sam placed the last record on the shelf with a flourish, now dust-free and arranged by alphabet, just like Sam liked it. Riley only came in once a week, but in that time he’d managed to wreck havoc on Sam’s meticulously organized labeling system. He was a nightmare to work with, even if he was Sam’s best friend. For that, Sam definitely preferred Natasha, even if her indie playlists drove him mad.

 

 

Sam mentally swept the record store. There was a new shipment of records under the cluttered desk, waiting to be labeled. One of the knobs on the ancient cashier looked wonky again, possibly, or so Sam suspected, because Nat liked pressing it to the beat of the music as it made a dinging noise. Rising behind the desk and spanning the room were rows upon rows of records sorted according to the year of release and the name of the artist. It was beautiful.

 

 

He, Riley and Nat started working at the record store in high school. It wasn’t for a huge amount of money, because the business was struggling, even then, but Jim, the owner, had trouble with the menial tasks required to run it. They’d hung around it often enough as kids, so he’d offered them a job. Eventually, they took on more and more responsibilities; until they were practically running it and Jim had offered to sell it to them over a series of smaller payments.

 

 

They’d accepted. It wasn’t a particularly prospective venture and Sam’s parents probably thought he’d be back home in a few months. But then retro nostalgia happened. Vinyl was suddenly back in fashion, and as the shop was located in a very hipster populated part of the city, business was blooming.

 

 

Sam was the only one that worked at the store full time, as Nat was working on a business degree and Riley had a band. Sam did most of the customer work, as well as keeping them in stock, and Natasha made sure that the numbers evened out and tracked down rare records from collectors in her spare time. Meanwhile, Riley was in charge of promotion, designing flyers and posters, and organizing local indie bands to perform at the store.

 

 

It wouldn’t make them millionaires, but it was a good job, and they were all doing something they loved with no one bossing them around.

 

 

Sam shook his hips to the song coming through his speakers, careless in the empty store. Outside, the heat was pressing down hard and the streets were mostly bare, people hiding in the safety of four walls to keep cool. The record store didn’t have much in the way of air conditioning, except for a small unit that rattled ominously when it turned on. Riley said it added the shop character, but Nat had already started putting money aside for a new one. Meanwhile, they made do with a number of electric fans that offered an illusion of coolness. Sam was wearing the minimum amount of clothes possible; a pair of short shorts that were pretty snug and a neon green tank top that could have been Natasha’s, even if it probably wasn’t. He was sweating, even through liberal application of deodorant.

 

 

“Uh…excuse me…” a voice said behind him, startling a shriek from Sam and causing him to drop the record he was moving so it flopped onto the floor with a muted thump.

 

 

Sam bent down to pick it up, whirling around to look at the stranger, only to drop the unfortunate record again.

 

 

This wasn’t Sam’s lucky day.

 

 

But honestly, who could blame him? The stranger was a goddamn specimen.

 

 

“I’m so sorry,” the man said, sweeping a few blonde hairs from his sweaty forehead, and how the hell was Sam supposed to work under these conditions? “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

 

 

“No, it’s okay,” Sam said, bending over to pick up the record for the second time. “I wasn’t exactly paying attention. I figured everyone’d been scared off by the heat!”

 

 

“Yeah, I actually wanted to ask you for directions…” the man trailed off as Sam straightened, “…is that an original copy of The Clash’s _Give ‘Em Enough Rope_ from 1978?”

 

 

“It is,” Sam replied, handing over the record into the man’s outstretched hands, before moving to stand behind the counter. He felt more secure there. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a punk.”

 

 

The man was built like a brick shithouse, but he was also wearing a pair of green khakis and a shirt that might have been pastel. Sweaty and red-faced, his blonde hair was slicked down by the sweat.

 

 

He was the best thing Sam had seen in a long, long while.

 

 

“Yeah, well,” the man grinned, “I like breaking stereotypes. I’m Steve, by the way.”

 

 

Steve extended a hand across the desk, holding the record carefully in his other. Sam took it.

 

 

“I’m Sam. I work here and I swear, I’m usually way more professional than this,” he got a laugh for that, and wasn’t that a sight for sore eyes.

 

 

“I don’t really mind,” Steve said, and was Sam hallucinating from the heat, or was that an appreciative once-over he was getting? “Punk isn’t your thing then?”

 

 

“I like it well enough. I just never found the scene very welcoming,” Sam shrugged, straightening the plastic over a _Bad Brains_ record. “My friend Riley’s in a punk band though. Or at least I think it’s a punk band. They change their genre every week; it’s hard to keep up. They got this new guitarist recently; he won’t shut up about it.”

 

 

“I’m familiar with the type. My best friend Bucky is a guitarist. Actually, he was the one I was trying to find? He gave me a street and a number,” it’s an address Sam vaguely recognizes and it’s actually not too far. “He always tells me to use a GPS, but my phone is kind of a brick, so I keep getting lost.”

 

 

“Well, you’re in luck,” Sam said, “Riley’s band practice somewhere around there, so I know where it is.”

 

 

“That’s awesome,” Steve grins brightly, looking strikingly similar to a golden retriever puppy that Sam’s neighbor had. “And the record too, please. I don’t think I can bear leaving it.”

 

 

Sam rings up the purchase, sneaking glances at Steve from under his eyelashes. Their fingers touch when Sam hands over the paper bag and they snap back as if burnt, suddenly shy.

 

 

“So…you’re not what I imagined a record store employee would look like,” Steve said, holding his record close.

 

 

“Oh, really? What did you imagine?”

 

 

“I don’t know. A greasy guy who talks in record release dates, not…” at this point Steve seemed to realize that he was saying too much, “…you.”

 

 

Sam cocked his head to one side, putting his hands on his hips. It almost seemed like Steve was flirting, in a slightly incompetent way.

 

 

“Oh, that’s how it is?” Let it be said that Sam wasn’t good at backing down from a challenge.

 

 

“Yeah, that’s how it is.”

 

 

“Try me, then.” Especially from hunky blonde men.

 

 

“Jimi Hendrix, _Electric ladyland_?”

 

 

“Too easy. 1968. Next.”

 

 

“The Miracles, _Special Occasion_?”

 

 

“How the hell did you come up with The Miracles? It’s also 1968, by the way.”

 

 

“My mom owned that record. The Buzzcocks, first album?”

 

 

“You don’t even know what it is, honestly. 1972, _Another Kind of Music in a Different Kind of Kitchen_. And I only know that because I ordered it last week.”

 

 

“You’re very good at this. My Chemical Romance, _The Black Parade_?”

 

 

“Now you’re just making fun of me!” Sam frowned, then realized he was leaning so far across the counter that it was digging into his stomach and pulled back.

 

 

“Only a little bit. But I see you’re the real deal then. Handsome and knowledgeable, is there anything you can’t do?” Steve’s voice sounded confident, but his face was fire-engine red and it was unspeakably endearing.

 

 

“Well, I can’t fly,” Sam replied, “not yet anyway.”

 

 

“I could make an angel pick-up line here. I hope you appreciate how I’m restraining myself,” Steve said and Sam laughed despite the serious face he was trying to put on. “Seriously though, I’d like to see you again and I’d rather not order a hundred records just for an excuse to come to see you, because my wallet can’t take it. So?”

 

 

Sam was interested, of course he was, and he definitely appreciated Steve’s honesty, but he wasn’t exactly in the habit of dating customers. And yet…

 

 

“How about this then? My phone number is number of records Neneh Cherry has released, the number of Soul II Soul singles that reached top of the charts, Sade’s Love Deluxe album and Al Green’s Let’s Stay Together album. Think you can remember that?”

 

 

“Consider it memorized,” Steve said and the two of them grinned stupidly at each other for what was probably way too long, before Steve said goodbye and walked out. He did so I reverse so they could keep looking at each other and tripped over a shelf on the way out, and Sam didn’t even mind.

 

 

 

 

*  


 

 

 

Three days. Steve still hadn’t called. Sam frowned at the speakers blaring out one of Nat’s indie bands and went to change the record.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

A week. Sam left the indie band play on, exchanging yet another longing look with his phone.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Sam didn’t see Steve until a month later. He went to one of Riley’s gigs, only to spot Steve next to a tall brunette, who turned to reveal Riley’s guitarist. It figured that Steve’s best friend Bucky would turn out to be Riley’s brilliant new guitarist. Just Sam’s luck, really.

 

 

He was bitter about it. Of course he was. He hadn’t dated in ages and the thing with Steve seemed like the right way to end the drought. Sam was his usual charming self, so why hadn’t Steve called? Or maybe it was because Sam had been his usual self…

 

 

It’s with these thoughts in mind that he signaled the bartender for another beer.

 

 

An hour later, he was feeling a bit braver and also a good deal drunker. He spotted Steve coming back from the bathroom, squared his shoulders and stepped in his way.

 

 

“Hey,” Sam said, watching the lines on Steve’s face deepen with trepidation, “can I just ask you a question?”

 

 

“Fine,” was the short reply. Steve looked agitated, but also strangely sad.

 

 

“Why did you never call?” Sam winced at how plaintive his voice sounds. Steve’s frown melted into confusion.

 

 

“I didn’t call because you gave me the wrong number. I figured you’d just wanted to get rid of the weird guy hitting on you in your record shop!”

 

 

“But I didn’t? My number is 4119921970.”

 

 

“1971.”

 

 

“What?”

 

 

“Al Green’s album was released in 1971.” Steve’s face broke out in a smile and Sam tried to ignore how it made the butterflies in his stomach flutter.

 

 

“That’s impossible!”

 

 

“Check Wikipedia if you don’t believe me.”

 

 

Which is how they found themselves smushed together over Sam’s phone, waiting for the info to load and arguing about it while they waited.

 

 

“You could have just called the store!”

 

 

“I thought you didn’t want me!”

 

 

“Well, let me just clarify that immediately. I want you very much.” Sam almost rolls his eyes at himself. Way not to sound desperate Sam, well done.

 

 

“Oh,” the smile spreading across Steve’s face made any embarrassment immediately worth it. “Really?”

 

 

“Yeah. I really like you.”

 

 

“Me too. I mean, I like you too.”

 

 

In the bright beam of Steve’s smile Sam forget all about how he’s going to have to re-label an entire shelf tomorrow. Across the room, Riley and Bucky high fived and immediately turned to give Natasha five dollars each. If she noticed the way they were pressed up suspiciously close to each other, she didn’t mention a thing.

 

 

But that’s a whole different story.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://jjjat3am.tumblr.com/)


End file.
